Nine Months
by Lost Experiment
Summary: A spoileriffic look at the series of events between the last episode of Season 2 and the first episode of Season 3.
1. Prologue

**Title:** Nine Months - Prologue.

**Author: ****Lost Experiment******  
**Rating:** PG-13

**Characters this Chapter:** Skwisgaar, Toki, Nathan, Pickles, Murderface, Charles and OC's in very minor roles.

**Warnings/Pairings:** if you've not seen the first episode of Season 3 this makes BIG GLARING GIANT SPOILERS FOR THE BIG DRAMATIC CLIMAX OF THE PREMIERE EPISODE OF SEASON 3 Also it's an AU because we DON'T know the truth. Picks up right after Season 2. Guess how many chapters it is.

**Chapter Summary:** Picking up right after Season 2 ends and covering the period of time before Season 3 begins....we follow Offdensen.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Metalocalypse. Nor am I making any profit off of this. Fanwork only and is the property of Small and Blacha

* * *

**Prologue**

It had all been very carefully planned: right to the smallest detail. The squadron of elite Klokateers: some muscle, some doctors who accompanied Charles to the surgery. Dethklok was fortunately too incredulous at being made to wait outside to protest. It might have been fortunate that the manager was passed out at the time, as the look on Nathan's face would have been more than enough on its own to prevent him from what he had intended to do to them all.

He had hoped, while he was still awake that nothing would go this far. Now that it had it was up to people who were not him.

"Sirs. We understand that Dethklok would prefer to use their own surgeons in matters of their employees health but we simply can not condone…"

The deep rumble of a particularly well-built Klokateer issued slightly muffled from behind his mask. "We are here to puruse the morgue. We require a body. You and your staff may work on the commander."

"The morgue?!" sputtered the doctor. To the man's credit, he was not in the least intimidated by the enormous man's size. "Sir, I'm as big a Dethklok fan as the next man but may I remind you that these deceased patients are people's loved ones and family! I simply can not allow you this kind of irreverence in my hospital to human life."

"There are, I presume bodies in this morgue that do not belong to patients with families?"

"Well yes…" the Doctor said. "A few John Does are stored here." His gaze narrowed with loathing and suspicion.

"Very good. We will compensate the standard $500 family burial fees, plus some extra for use of your facilities."

The doctor's face did a dance of eyebrows and a ghost wind of sighs and clucks escaped his lips. The fact of the matter was that some of these bodies that the Police stored in the Hospital's much more spacious facilities belonged to the fringes of society, human waste who had died alone and exposed to the elements. For these poor souls to have a funeral was more than they would ever have expected otherwise. "Very well. Follow me." It wasn't quite defeat.

* * *

The body wasn't quite perfect, but alongside the real Charles being stitched together, the Dethklok surgeons began reconstructing the corpse they'd retrieved to look like the manager. This wasn't the usual work they did: destroying the faces of those whom they had to silence so Dethklok's frequent media disasters wouldn't affect the band's reputation.

The unknown victim of the elements naturally had not had the luxuries of a training facility and three square meals a day, but once padded with imaginative tissue reconstructions and all scars masked by a clean suit, the resemblance was uncanny. On the other table, the real Offdensen sat up, long deep stitches slightly stretched as he grinned a mildly unnerving grin at the first sight upon awakening from blood loss, surgery and local anaesthetics being himself lying dead on the opposite side of the room.

"Commander?"

"How much longer until I'm fit to leave?"

The same doctor who had initially warred with the Klokateer glanced at his charts. "Three hours. I would recommend that at least you allow a Nurse to take you to wherever it is you intend to go in a wheelchair. I assume you're not going home."

Charles gave the beleaguered man a wan smile. "You've probably figured out that Dethklok is not great at obeying orders."

"Oh, I have." With that, the doctor spun on his heel and made a harassed exit that in any other circumstance would have made the former manager proud. He clung to the notion of deliberate refusal to follow orders – it was what his boys would have done.

* * *

Three hours later, Klokateer number 577701 arrived in the waiting room. Although usually no Klokateer would dare appear before his Lords without his hood, the meaning behind the gesture could not be plainer: it was the equivalent of removing one's hat in reverence for the dead.

"My Lords, we have done all we can…but Commander Offdensen is dead."

Nathan opened his mouth but no long scream came forth. 577701 suddenly found his arms occupied: the right with a vehement Toki intent on beating him, the other with a frizzy haired bassist whose knife was about to find his throat. Luckily, 577701 was stronger than both and he managed to hold Toki until he'd calmed into hurt sobs and even Murderface was embarrassed and moved off.

Pickles quite obviously took solace in drug abuse but Skwisgaar surprisingly held out his arm for the drummer to inject a needle into. Once both realized that morphine didn't exactly sooth hurt emotions, they both broke out the booze and it didn't take long for whatever they were imbibing to relax the contours of their faces and put a dim shade behind their eyes.

"The hospital will keep Mr. Offdensen's body here, my Lords." 577701 retrieved his hood and put it on.

"Oh no. No…way. Hesh coming home."

"Yeaaaah dood. Murdahface is right." Pickles slurred.

"Uh." Nathan hadn't seemed to have come to grips yet. "Yeah. Having…y'know…dead body. Brutal."

577701 frowned. This was not what they had planned for. "My Lords, the facilities here are clean and…"

"NO. No you…Fuck. Fuck you. He's uh. Coming. Home. Yeah."

The burly gear nodded and went to retrieve the body. Hopefully this would work.

* * *

Pickles and Skwisgaar were no trouble at all. Both had ingested a dangerous level of alcohol and drugs by that point and neither was in any position to judge an apple from an orange with any competency let alone a delicate plastic surgery job.

Toki turned away immediately at the sight of the dead body and Murderface lingered but if he'd felt something was amiss he didn't say anything.

Nathan however prowled around the casket like an animal. The group of Gears who were Charles' private guard stood unflinching. If any member of Dethklok was going to see through the plan, it would be Lord Nathan.

Finally, the big man sighed. "Close it."

Two gears rushed forward to close the casket.

"We burn it tomorrow."

* * *

In a small pub located many miles from Mordland but not yet outside the United States of America, was Clawson Michigan. The restaurant was a run-down family style place, packed to the gills with families out for an evening and people who wanted a drink or two without getting drunk.

The man at the end of the bar hailed the bartender/waitress: a big lady with a lot of curves, dyed rust-coloured hair and a bunch of tattoos in the shape of roses, celtic crosses, barbed wire and other cliché favourites. As it was, the newcomer 'Charlie' was a favourite customer. He tipped well, didn't bore her with maudlin talk and practically worshipped her pie-making ability.

"More apple pie?"

"Just a coffee." She gave him a look. "Alright. You got me. Coffee and more pie. More importantly, I was wondering if you could turn that up."

She followed his gaze to the small television in the corner which had previously been playing the local College football game but upon announcement of the score (the rival university had bested Michigan State so they didn't dwell too long on it.) the news had switched to the Dethklok minute."

"Heh, Dethklok fan hm?"

Charles gave her a nod. "You could say that."

"You and everyone else in the world." A slice of pie was set in front of him but his iced cream dissolved into a soupy mess without being touched as he watched his boys light the pyre of the man they thought was him. He listened to the uncharacteristically slurred speech of Skwisgaar as he stumbled through Viking prayer and his heart melted watching Nathan's pain.

"I'm sorry boys. I'll be home soon."

"Yeh say somethin' Charlie?"

Charles took a bite of pie. "Nah. Just that this is the best pie ever."

_To Be Contined..._


	2. Month 1

**Title:** Nine Months - Prologue.

**Author: ****Lost Experiment**

**Rating:** PG-13

**Characters this Chapter:** Skwisgaar, Toki, Nathan, Pickles, Murderface, Charles and OC's in very minor roles.

**Warnings/Pairings:** if you've not seen the first episode of Season 3 this makes BIG GLARING GIANT SPOILERS FOR THE BIG DRAMATIC CLIMAX OF THE PREMIERE EPISODE OF SEASON 3 Also it's an AU because we DON'T know the truth. Picks up right after Season 2. Guess how many chapters it is.

**Chapter Summary:** Charles adjusts to life outside Mordhaus. It's pretty brutal, even for him.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Metalocalypse. Nor am I making any profit off of this. Fanwork only and is the property of Small and Blacha

* * *

_Month 1_

Charles shifted under the threadbare comforter, trying to escape the sounds of people doing aerobics while performing dangerous and painful surgery. (He firmly refused to embrace the disturbing notion that they were having sex. Sex did not sound like that. ) To top off the evening a grinding shuddering noise alerted Charles to the fact that the radiator warming the room had just given up the ghost. What a LOVELY situation to be in.

Charles wasn't weak-willed in the face of hardship but he was a man who had spent a good deal of time living very well. Certainly not the pampered lives of his boys, but nonetheless opulent. Now he only had the budget for this project which covered only the basics of travel, accommodation and food. It took some getting used to.

He could have done a bit better, but the indulgence of three slices of pie had to be paid for somehow. _I'm becoming like my boys_ he thought wryly as he pushed himself out of bed to wrap himself in his jacket for extra warmth.

The disturbing noises had stopped above him…at least that was a plus.

* * *

"Mornin, Charlie. Breakfast special's ham and cheese omelette."

"Just coffee for me today, I think."

"Suit yourself." She went to get the pot as he sat down.

"Can you put on the morning news?"

She nodded and switched on. Almost instantly an image of the underbelly of Mordhaus was filling the screen.

"Earlier today Mordhaus was taken into the clouds where it will remain until reconstruction is complete." The camera moved back to take in the hulking form of the familiar Gear who stood beside the reporter. "What can we expect to hear from Dethklok on this development?"

"Our Lords are unavailable for comment." Rumbled the Gear. "They have decided to retire from public view for awhile. Because of people like you." 57701 punctuated the point with a jab of his finger that the woman instinctively skittered back from.

"Good job, 577701." Charles murmured. Charles liked using 577701 for dealing with the public. He was (mostly) all bark and no bite so his presence tended to herd people away from danger and keep record sales in the black. He'd also been lucky enough to avoid death for quite some time after joining so he was one of the closest people Charles had to a right-hand-man. Of course, the moment he made it official, the man would probably be ripped apart. 577701 was resigned to being the go-to guy for odd jobs ranging from assassination to holding some band member's hair if they puked.

"Your coffee."

"Thank you." Charles sighed. There would be no shot of his boys today.

The waitress put the cup down but didn't immediately walk away. "I can't get over how big a fan you are. You even know the number of that hood guy. You thinking of becoming one of them?"

"Not especially." Charles replied. It was true too. He already was more one of them than she could ever dream.

"Good."

For the first time since the conversation began, Charles actually looked up at her. "Not a fan?"

"No, I like Dethklok alright. It's just…it's hard thinking that every time I see one of my friends go to one of those concerts it's probably the last time I'll see 'em." Her hand tightened on the mug. "I've got the good sense to stay away. You should stay away too Charlie."

Charles gazed after her. For a split second he thought perhaps she was one of them…but that was silly. If anyone was in a position to understand him, she was. However, this was neither the time nor the place. He put down money to cover his drink, took a long look at the TV and walked out.

* * *

In comparison to the hotel, the car was pretty nice. It was hardly the black Mercedes C-Class he drove when he wanted to be discreet (compared to some of the Dethvehicles, a Hummer would have been discreet) but the navy Saturn was functional and had heated seats. He toyed with the idea of sleeping in it, but calling extra attention to himself was not advisable.

In the glove compartment was a packet of papers, tobacco and a key. Charles hadn't smoked since his first year of College and he gave it up pretty fast when the need to eat outstripped the need for nicotine. He rolled one, clumsily: it'd been a long time and if he was going to do this he most certainly wasn't buying that filtered out store-bought crap, lit it and rolled the window to flick ash out onto the pavement. The sun caught the silver key and it gleamed bright glare into his eyes.

_"How are you feeling, Commander?"_

_ "I'm faring well, 577701. How uh. How are the boys taking it?"_

_ "Well, sir. You remember that chat we had where you taught me the finer points of attempting to deal with Dethklok's lawsuits?"_

_ Charles just blinked at him._

_ "Well how the bloody feck do you do it? Lord Murderface touched her tits. Out of grief. For you!" _

_ Charles could feel his lip tremble a little bit. He wasn't sure if he was about to laugh or cry but he mastered himself. "And the crashes?"_

_ "Lord Skiwsgaar wanted more drugs."_

_ This surprised Charles mightily. Pickles he might have expected to try coping via jag but Skwisgaar? _

_ "The really big crash?"_

_ "Lord Nathan wanted to see your body. I tried…not to bruise him too much. But uh…we'll have to send a ham to 683's widow." 577701 rolled his shoulder like he was trying to work out a particularly painful kink. Evidently Nathan had put up a very good fight._

_ "I see."_

_ "There is one more thing." 577701 paused and pulled out a small plastic shopping bag which he upended in Charles lap. "The remaining affects of the man who injured you, Commander."_

_ "Ah. What is the state of the man himself?"_

_ "I shared it with the yard wolves." There was a pause. "Ground. Up. Like hamburger."_

_ "Very uh, thorough metaphor there."_

_ "Metaphor. Yes Commander."_

_577701 had clicked his heels, saluted and departed then, leaving Charles to peruse the trinkets at his leisure. A metal mask, bloodstained. A key, obviously taped to some discreet part of the man's person. There was still some adhesive substance stuck to the ring. The shiv that had been used to cut his face._

_ Of most interest was the key. It looked like it should belong to a locker or trunk at first glance, but Charles recognized it for a padlock key. Not generic either._

_ As he recovered strength in the hospital bed he searched. Two areas in the United States had bunkers who used that company to secure their patrons affects. He'd chosen the Michigan one over the Florida one. Florida was too close to one of the targets for it to be a wise move._

_

* * *

  
_

"Alright you sick bastard, let's find out what you're hiding."

The hour was late as the guard dropped off to sleep. For Charles' purposes, he opted to enter the compound by stealth rather than force. He couldn't help but think that he would wind up needing to kill before this adventure was over. The less attention he commanded the better, especially if someone got wind that a newly dead and buried man was walking around alive.

There was a rank scent on the wind as the Manager crept through the various storage garages. Charles couldn't quite place it, it smelled something like decay and must: neither of which seemed out of place in a storage facility. Some people didn't know how to properly store their belongings and naturally there might be an unfixed leak in such a poorly upkept spot.

Charles' stomach gave a weak clench as he arrived at the bunker marked 214, corresponding with the number on the key. The scent was most powerful here and his brain registered it as the awful smell associated with the dungeons of Mordhaus when that flesh-eating virus strain had gotten into the Gears' food.

He knew what he would find on the other side. He just wasn't prepared for the extent.

The second the full extent of the smell hit his nostrils, he gagged. The heap of corpses in the corner comprised the dreadful aroma. It wasn't that that made it difficult to control the bile in the back of his throat. It was the fact, much as he disliked the notion, of the method in which the pile of bodies had been destroyed. Not with knives, guns or even cruder items like hatchets and chainsaws. With someone's bare hands. The same bare hands that had eagerly given him the scar that the hospital staff had not had time to repair.

Charles held no delusions of grandeur regarding his mortality but he retained a healthy amount of pride in his own ability. He was thankful no one was around to see him fall to his knees, senses and emotions overwhelmed as he gasped and choked on bitter bile that tasted of sour, half-digested coffee and cigarettes. Ironically had he not done so he would not have noticed the small scrap of paper lying wedged between the blood encrusted surgical table and the wall.

It took a few tries but eventually Charles managed to retrieve it. It had on it a number: mobile phone by the looks of things, accompanied by a name and title: General Emmett Crozier.

Charles was surprised to find that he knew the name. It was of course possible that it could be a different Emmett Crozier than the one he had encountered in college, but that would be a strange coincidence indeed.

* * *

_The scope and coverage of the news had been magnificent, even for a University as prestigious as Harvard. Charles could see the news crews from his dormitory room. He almost didn't get up to answer the knock at his door._

_ "What's going on, Off?"_

_ Too engrossed in the goings on to protest the nickname, Charles Offdensen, barely turned 21 years of age pulled back the curtain so his across-the-hall neighbour; a football star by the name of Callum could see outside._

_ "Dr. Selactia quit the department and now Emmett has too. I think I heard that he plans to join the military."_

_ "That History brain with the scholarships?"_

_ Charles nodded, neglecting to chide the other student's irreverence for intelligence. "Indeed."_

_ There was good reason for the news coverage. The work of Emmett Crozier had brought Harvard University a truly amazing amount of money via grants and scholarships that had kept the University in the news for many years thus far. To have years of research and donations dismissed as 'bunk' was an enormous blow to the prestige of one of the most prolific Ivy League schools in existence. Privately, Charles himself thought that the idea of a 'band' being the catalyst for the apocalypse utterly ridiculous, but there were some serious repercussions that would likely affect the whole Arts department, if not the University as a whole. As a law student, Charles wasn't just a member of the school of Business._

_ "Oi, Off, you look like you're gonna lose your shit."_

_ Charles sighed. "I don't like to think about how this is going to effect our relationships with other Universities. We will probably have funding pulled."_

_ Callum looked at him blankly and Charles pulled his shoulders up near his neck in a very expansive shrug for him_

_ "There goes my international study opportunity. Just cause that douchebag Selactia decided to bail." Charles was angry enough to be cruder than normal in his word choice. "I don't blame Emmett for wanting out. Maybe I should have gone to Princeton."_

_ "Y'don't mean that Off. Their rowing team is shit."_

_ Callum might have been sports-minded but he had respect for the parts of the institution that he represented._

_ Charles sighed. "No, I suppose I don't. It's just that next year is the LSATS."_

_ The conversation dissolved into banter by then. Charles made it to Oslo and later Glasgow in Scotland for a few conferences before the end of his University career but the damage had been done. He still resented it.  
_

_

* * *

  
_

Charles pocketed the card and retired to his car. A nearby McDonalds restaurant provided him with a cup of white coffee and some chips which nullified the ache in his esophagus until such time as the local drugstore opened and he could purchase Pepcid.

Crozier weighed on his mind. He'd known the man, if not quite peripherally speaking. Hopefully the scope of Harvard university's extensive campus would be enough to cloak him this time.

_To Be Continued..._


End file.
